


Love Potion Number 9

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Consent Issues, First Time, Heavy Kink with a Light Touch, Hurt Sam, M/M, Manhandling, Mark of Cain Dean, Marking, Multiple Orgasms, Offscreen Sam/OFC, Post-Episode: s10e17 Inside Man, Riding, Season/Series 10, Sex Magic, Violent sexual fantasies, Wincest Big Bang 2020 (Supernatural), do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:07:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27189775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: Dean thought he had a handle on the Mark of Cain’s murderous impulses. He thought he had his wrong feelings for Sam safely suppressed.Then Sam got hexed.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 32
Kudos: 164
Collections: Wincest Big Bang 2020





	1. The Curse

**Author's Note:**

> So many thank-yous!
> 
> [Cozy_coffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cozy_coffee), my darling. This was originally inspired by [your prompt on Comment Fic](https://comment-fic.livejournal.com/986578.html?thread=110583506#t110583506): February 22, 2019, “Any, any male/male, under his spell” (now deleted. oops? 😳) 
> 
> The most incredible team of readers: [crowroad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowroad), [nisaki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nisaki), and [samshinechester](https://samshinechester.tumblr.com). I don’t even know what a mess I’d be without y’all.
> 
> My 2020 artist, the inimitable [angeltortured](https://angeltortured-artblog.tumblr.com). [Show love to the art here!](https://angeltortured-artblog.tumblr.com/post/632985930350886912/artwork-for-laughablelament-fic-for)
> 
> And of course the challenge mods.
> 
> I’m so grateful to all of you! 💖

“Sammy!” Dean struggles against the mojo’d drapes. Mummified—no, Chinese finger cuffs; the more he twists, the tighter they hold.

Sam _oofs_. Deep, muted thud sounds like his gun hitting the carpet.

“I have a present for you,” Rowena coos.

Brass clatters as Dean yanks the motherfucking curtains off their rod. Heavy, purple velvet tumbles; Dean ducks clear. Earthy incense clogs his nostrils, but at least he can see.

Rowena puffs out her cheeks and blows. Sparkling, pinkish powder clouds and clings to Sam; he bolts for the bathroom, shirt collar pulled up past his nose. “What did you do to me?” he coughs.

“Just a pinch of succubus venom,” Rowena says, lilting. “Ye should thank me!” she calls after him. “Strappin’ young lad like yourself? Why, I almost _envy_ the girl!” She looks at Dean. “Or…” Sly smile and a shrug.

Dean works his arm—gun arm, Marked arm, sizzling with the urge to butcher that witch. He can’t get it free.

“But, for now, ye’ll be far too…” Rowena snickers, “ _occupied_ , to chase after me.” She draws a hex bag from her dress, hurls it to the ground, and vanishes in a swirl of green smoke.

Dean’s curtain prison collapses, sends him stumbling. He plows between stuffed leather chairs, across plush carpet.

Witch has style; he’ll give her that.

“Sammy?”

Through the open bathroom door, Sam stands in the shower, soaked in his clothes. Neck cords bulge as he spits and scrubs his face.

“You all right, man?”

“I dunno.” Sam peels his top shirt off and slings it over the glass partition. T-shirt clings, turns transparent. “That… couldn’t have been the pure venom.”

“No shit.” Dean clears his throat. Mouth’s bone-dry all of a sudden. “We’d probably both be corpses, if it was.”

“It tastes,” Sam spits again, “like strawberry Quik.” Water cascades. Cock rides thick, obvious in his sopping jeans.

Dean wants to rip Sam’s fly open. Peel the denim, wet and heavy, down Sam’s thighs. Get an ankle out, pick Sam up—Dean’s breath catches.

Sam’s boots sail out— _thump, thump_ , and his V-neck goes. Abs flex and shimmer. Spray hammers Sam’s broad shoulders, warms him red. He worms out of his jeans and boxers. Long, lean lines make rivers and waterfalls. Dick smacks in his treasure trail.

Dean could hoist him off his feet and rub him off right here. Give him a half concussion, knocking his head on the tiles. Dean runs fingers over the hot, raised skin of the Mark. “Sammy, I-uh—” Palms itch. Pulse thrums. Steam builds on the glass.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice trembles.

He imagines Sam’s orgasm. Shooting up between them just from dragging on Dean’s belly, wedged against the shower wall and spasming on Dean’s trapped dick. Been years since Dean creamed his pants, but seeing Sam like that…

“I’ll get you some dry clothes.” Dean rasps, flees. Arm blazes like it’s boiling in grease.

*

He has a better rein on himself, now that Sam has clothes on. Both hands on the wheel, safely at ten and two. Sam breathes deep, deliberate; flexing fingers absently scratch at his spread thighs. Dean swallows past a watermelon lodged in his throat. Eyes safely on the road.

“So-uh. What’s that stuff doing to you?” Most of his life, he’s kept his wrong feelings for Sam in a box. Not a secret—he knew, Sam knew. Fucking, real estate shills from Indiana knew, all those years ago.

“I feel…” Sam tilts his head, “feverish, kinda? Um,” quick glance at his lap, “easily aroused…”

Once Dean went black-eyed, that box broke.

“My skin.” Sam rubs the back of his hand; eyelashes flutter. “I can almost… feel my fingerprints.”

Nearly from day one, he’d indulged in every filthy fantasy he’d ever repressed about Sam. Spread out, bent over, stuffed full, leaking come. On his knees, on his back, pinned to the hood of the car and begging for it harder, faster, deeper.

Dean swallows. Spots a diner and wheels in with slick, sweaty palms. “You up for some grub?” he deflects.

“Yeah, I’m starved,” Sam says, and Dean wonders if that’s a symptom of the potion too.

Car doors creak, Sam unfolds from shotgun. They fall in step like the heroes of a buddy cop comedy, except, in this one, one of the buddies keeps picturing the lights going out in his partner’s eyes.

Doorbell jingles.

No, Dean hadn’t thought about _fucking_ Sam since the blood cure.

 _“My story began when I killed my brother.”_ Yesterday, it was a slim blade slipped between Sam’s ribs. Day before, a jawbone drawn across his throat. _“And that’s where yours will inevitably end.”_

And fuck Cain, for putting that shit in his head.

Skinny busboy wearing a too-big company t-shirt hauls a tub of clean plates out from the back. Eyes slide straight past Dean, land on Sam and turn hungry.

Dean glances back and Sam’s grinning, checking out the busboy, swinging those dimples around like a two-by-four.

Choking down an almighty urge to splash this place in busboy blood, Dean scouts the room. Trucker in a Peterbilt cap sips coffee at the counter. Big sonofabitch, dark-complected with close-cropped hair. Sharp eyes size Sam up.

In the back, next to the johns and the fire exit, male and female. Couple, probably. Dude’s got a ponytail and a soul patch. Girl’s petite; loose blonde hair swings when she talks. Soul Patch spots Sam, goes slackjawed and nods at the girl. She turns; puzzled curiosity heats up to craving.

Dean growls. Rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck. Picks a booth where he can keep an eye on everyone and backs up towards the window. Sam slides in across from him. Cheeks puff on a slow exhale. Clean shirt, damp from his hair. Eyes pick up light and color, almost swirl.

Dean studies him, studying the menu. Slope of his nose, curve of his chin. Hair in Sam’s face makes Dean want to twist his fingers in it. Jerk Sam’s head back, drag him to the bathroom and bend him over the sink, cheek pressed to the mirror and jeans down just enough for Dean to get in.

He checks himself. This was how it started, when he was black-eyed.

Thirty-something waitress checks her lipstick in her phone, fluffs up her hair before she saunters over. “Get you guys something to drink?”

“Can I get a double-cheese, onion rings, and a Dr. Pepper, please?” Dean conjures his most disarming smile and drops his menu back in its slot.

“Uh-huh,” She intones, like he’s freaking invisible. Sultry, to Sam, “How about you? You ready to order?” Pupils wide, lips parted. One shoulder hitched and a hip cocked.

Sam rakes his tongue on his teeth. Deep dimple, bashful smirk. Dean balls fists under the tabletop; fingernails bite his palms. Sam orders, but Dean can’t follow, staring at Sam’s pink mouth, busy Adam’s apple.

“Dude, are _you_ all right?” Sam glows golden even under the harsh fluorescents.

“I’m good, man.” Dean watches their waitress swish away. “You’re the one that got jinxed.”

“Are you sure? You were standing right there.”

“I don’t have the fever,” Dean insists, “or the skin thing. You’re kinda,” _blistering, begging, magnetic_ , “distracting to be around, but—”

Clattering. Dean jumps and Sam pulls a one-eighty. Middle-aged line cook stares, open-mouthed. Whatever she just dropped rocks noisily on the floor.

Sam eases. Tips his chin and the cook shudders.

Dean kicks Sam’s ankle.

“Ow!”

“Cool it, Romeo.” Not that Dean can talk.

Sam’s shirt strains across his shoulders and his hair falls full around his face.

“Dr. Pepper and a water with lemon,” their waitress breaks in.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Dean says.

“Uh-huh.”

Sam shows her his throat and his cartoon eyes, probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Dean reds out. Right hand clenches, itches for his Blade, any blade to slice her open. Crotch to her collar so her insides fall out.

She struts off and Dean almost pulls himself together. Atmosphere feels… charged. Prickles climb his neck and he clocks movement.

“Excuse us.” Soul Patch puts himself between Sam and Dean, leans on their table. “My wife and I think you’re just stunning, and…”

Dean straightens on an arrow-shot of adrenaline. He surveys.

Up at the counter, talk between the waitress and the busboy gets heated. Peterbilt hat looms up off his stool and the cook pulls a cold iron skillet off a shelf.

“I’m very flattered,” Sam’s saying, “but I’m leaving—”

Dean taps Soul Patch on the arm. “Hey, listen, pal—”

“Take a walk.” Peterbilt gives Soul Patch a bump.

Dean’s blood rises. Mark blares like the red strobe on a meat wagon.

“Dean, we should…” Sam glances towards the fire exit. Only the blonde chick that way.

Shattering. Hot coffee and glass spray the kitchen door. Busboy peeks from behind the counter and the waitress launches a barrage of cups. Blonde chick starts hollering, “I’m calling 9-1-1!” and she flees for the women’s room. Cook wields her skillet like a racket, knocking down ceramic projectiles until she’s close enough to tackle the waitress. They tumble out of sight, screeching like cats in a duffle bag.

Dean slides out of his bench, but Sam’s hemmed in. “Meet you in the car,” and he shoulder-checks Peterbilt, knocks him into Soul Patch, clears a space.

Sam slips through and Dean cracks his knuckles. He can see it: Back up Soul Patch with a faceful of Dr. Pepper. Take out Peterbilt’s knee, break his nose on the table edge. Steak knife through Soul Patch’s neck—

“Dean!” Sam’s eyes flick helplessly from Dean to the busboy, draped across the fire exit and blocking Sam’s path.

Dean squints. Sam should be able to throw that kid over his shoulder and—

 _Oh_.

Dean breathes in. Everything slows.

Peterbilt swings; Dean ducks. Grabs the bench he was sitting on—heavy, but he’s supercharged enough to move it—and slams it into the trucker’s shins. Soul Patch lunges; Peterbilt trips. Dean shoves the bench. Pins the two of them against the counter, in between barstools.

“Don’t. Move.” Dean feels his eyes almost blacken. He wheels. Says, “Get lost, kid,” as he stalks for the fire door.

Busboy squeaks, stumbles and falls back. Ass hits the crash bar, then the pavement. Fire alarm sounds, and Dean steps over the conniving little shit on his way out.

He still almost gets himself killed. “Call me?” The busboy offers Sam a slip of paper, flat on his backside and undeterred.

“Uh, yeah…” Sam looks like the kid just passed him a live grenade. “O-o-okay.”

“Sam…” Dean can’t even hear himself, the blood’s so loud in his ears.

Inside, the cook pounds the waitress’s head against the counter. Soul Patch and Peterbilt wrestle for the front door. Busboy blows a kiss and waves from the fire lane. Dean realizes: other than _crazy,_ everybody in there’s acting different.

He peels out, tosses up gravel and dust in a cloud. “What the fuck even was that?”

“I dunno.” Sam digs for his phone. Squirms, universal blue-jeans-pinching-my-hardon wiggle. “I thought I had a guess, for what Rowena hit me with,” his profile glows as he scrolls. “She said succubus venom, which goes in this one love potion.”

Dean cocks his head back towards the diner. “You ever seen a love potion do _that?_ ” The Mark throbs, goads him to turn around and turn their little scuffle into a slaughter. 

Sam’s shoulders sink. “No.”

“Anyway,” Dean shifts. “We need better than a guess. Bitch just tried to kill me.”

“What?” Sam’s mouth gets flat and his neck gets twisty. “When?”

“While you were in Wichita.” Steering wheel creaks in Dean’s grip. “I didn’t tell you because I handled it.”

“Handled it—how?” Pitchy. Sanctimonious.

“I saved two guys. _Douchebags_ , as a matter of fact.”

Sam flicks brush-off fingers. Props his elbow on the window, rubs his chin and stares at the nightscape flying by. Finally, “What do you want to do next?”

Hold Sam down and make him a masterpiece. Spackle him with hickeys. Fingerpaint bruises on his hips, wrists, thighs. Teeth-mark his shoulders, handprint his ass.

Sam’s still talking. “…for the Bunker, I guess? Figure out what’s in that powder?”

“What, like…” Dean snaps to the here-and-now. “CSI your clothes?”

“Yeah!” Sam _smiles_. Broadcasts brotherly affection plus a hot coil of want Dean hasn’t seen on him in years. “Bunker should have everything we need.”

 _Including privacy_ , Dean thinks. Him and Sam sleeping in separate quarters with no innocent bystanders around is about as good a mitigation as they’re gonna get.

“Well… to the Batcave!” Dean merges onto the highway. Slips through a line of eighteen-wheelers and flicks his eyes Sam’s way.

Sam runs a hand up from his belly all the way to his chin. Tips his head back and rubs his neck.

Dean swallows. Hits the gas.

*

Sixteen hours later, Dean finds his brother in the gun range, of all places, standing behind a table with a bunch of test tubes and one of his boots from last night, laces removed. “Okay, Bill Nye.” Dean hovers in the doorway.

Sam rolls his eyes behind antique safety glasses. “It’s definitely Love Potion Number 9.”

Dean squints. “Ain’t that like, a doo-wop song or some shit?”

“Yeah!” Sam says. “It’s a common, civilian-grade aphrodisiac. Sort of a… a super-glamour. You still look like you; you’re just… enhanced.”

Dean can attest to that. Sweat glimmers on Sam’s neck and brow. Flushed like an old-time painting: bright cheeks, engorged lips.

“Also-uh,” Sam squirms, “magical Viagra.”

Dean looks at Sam’s crotch, boom. Can’t help himself. Sam’s boot on the table obscures it, mostly, but Dean can tell from the pull of Sam’s jeans that he’s half-mast or better. Dean rubs his forehead. “How about that Thunderdome in the diner, you know anything about that?”

“Nothing.” Sam shakes his head. “Rowena might have used a variant, or… her own special recipe, I dunno. I’ve pulled a bunch of files…” Every move of Sam’s mouth makes Dean want to shove his cock in there, make Sam gag on it.

“We have to find that bitch,” Dean’s mind’s eye sees spit on Sam’s chin, tears on his lashes.

“How’s that going?” Sam asks.

Dean coughs. “Uh. I’ve nudged all my contacts. Found a couple tracking spells I can try.” Sam’s pupils are wide, and he looks glassy, painkiller high. “Figure I’ll cross-check weird deaths against five-star hotels.”

Sam nods.

“Hey.” Dean remembers, “I came down here to ask if you moved the rosemary out of the kitchen.”

Sam’s brow folds while his wheels turn. “Rosemary? For a tracking spell?”

“No, dude, the rosemary’s for dinner! Did you move it?”

“Uh. I saw it in the storage room outside the dungeon.”

Dean bows. “Thank you,” and backs out of the room.

*

“Wash up!” Dean yells. “Ten minutes or I throw it out!”

Burgers on buttered buns. Hand-cut, homemade French fries. Big pickle spears and some coleslaw from their last barbecue stop. Dean sets two plates and a bucket of beers on a fancy tray. He hauls it to the library where he almost drops it.

Sam gleams. Scrolls and papers spread around him, amber light from the antique lampshades. He looks… _right_. Like he _fits_ , with the old books, furniture and artifacts. Real fuckin’ Man of Letters here, he—

Catches Dean staring. Smile lights, sets the room afire. Dean sets the tray down. Inhales. Crackles with invisible flame.

He could lay Sam bare right here. Bite and bruise him, make him scream. Wrap his hands around Sam’s neck and suffocate him. Smell his fear. Get off on Sam’s panicked spasming all around his buried dick.

“…but the studies were blackboxed.”

“Blackboxed?” Dean wrangles his concentration. “That sounds ominous.” He sets their plates on the empty table, far from Sam’s scholarly chaos.

Sam shrugs. “All it means in practice is, two thirds of what I found today is in code. I’ve got Charlie on it.”

Dean smirks. “So you got nothin’ either, huh?” Two beers, popped tops. “Trackers were a bust too.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Sam says. “We’ll need a personal object for any spell strong enough to pin down Rowena.”

“You could’ve told me!” Dean grumbles.

“You could’ve found something.” Sam stands, stretches up and up and up, hands over his head; he even goes tiptoed.

“Hey.” Dean white-knuckles his chair arms, out of fear he’ll seize Sam. “You doing okay? I mean… all things considered.”

“Yeah!” Sam makes his way to their dinner spread. “I still feel the same as when she dosed me—which, it’s only been a day; it makes sense.”

Demon thoughts creep in. “Well that’s good.” Like, how he thought he’d chain Sam here, in this Bunker. “You-uh. Think we’re okay if we stow the pursuit until morning?” Cut him. Fuck him. Break him. “Wait and see if one of these leads firms up?” Feed him blood.

“Definitely,” Sam says. Feet nudge underneath the table when he sits. “This stuff’s for a weekend party. Even if Rowena messed with it…” Sam’s tongue glimmers. “As long as you’re okay?”

“I’m perfect.” _Long as I’m locked in my own room_.

“You found what, four leads today?”

“Eh.” Dean hands him a beer, offers a toast. “More like three.” _Clink._ “La Plaza in San Antonio is really soft.”

Sam visibly tracks Dean’s bottleneck, point of contact to Dean’s lips. Eyes linger as they drink together.

Dean tears his gaze away.

*

They pack the car. Dean pointedly does not fixate on Sam’s slim hips, subtly rocking. Old jeans, baggy on him, slung low so his boxers show, half tented. Kid’s gotta be miserable, even though he’s hiding it. Dean’s jerked off so many times he needs ointment. Sam must be raw.

All night, Sam’s old Boy King brand. First Knight by his side, scorching souls and carving each other into myth-shapes for all eternity.

Sam’s phone rings. Eyes light up; voice liquid: “Hey, Jody.”

Dean gawks.

Sam shrugs. “I’m gonna put you on speaker.”

“Howdy, Sheriff.” Dean says.

_“You boys are gonna owe me.”_

“Yeah?” Sam drips with double entendre. “I bet I know a way we can settle up.”

 _“Do you now?”_ Jody sells amused, but there’s heat in it. _“Let’s save that talk for when you’re off aphrodisiacs, huh?”_

“Yes, ma’am.” Sam purrs.

She and Sam do have this… this _thing_ , now that Dean thinks about it. “What have you got for us?” Right fist clenches, sudden urge to rip her throat out through the phone.

Jody coughs. _“I-uh. I think your witch is in Vegas.”_

“Vegas?” Sam leers at his screen.

 _“ATM at the Operetta picked up a long-haired, petite woman in a fancy gown—but,_ only _that one ATM. None of the other cameras ever saw her.”_

“Sounds witchy to me.” Dean interjects.

_“Cops love to gossip, so who knows, but—I’ve got a call in, ought to have—ope, here it is. I’m sending you a picture.”_

Sam taps his phone. “That’s her.”

“Jody, we so owe you,” Dean says.

_“Damn right.”_

Jody makes Dean promise on the car—on the car!—they’ll come visit once Sam’s situated.


	2. The Chase

They play Fed.

In the low lobby light of a high-end casino resort, whammied Sammy glows. Dean would’ve rather left him in the car, but these joints are hardcore about guest privacy and two Feds are more credible than one.

Plus, Sam’s kind of superpowered. Leaned on the counter, shoulders hunched and dimples loaded for bear. He talks their way into Rowena’s suite without a warrant. Brown-eyed, kindly desk clerk eyes him like a religious figure—if she only knew.

“Please tell me you haven’t had that room serviced.” It ain’t puppy eyes; it’s something way, way, dirtier.

Dean clenches and relaxes his fists. Senses stir. Prickle up his neck like before the diner fight.

“Sammy…”

Heads around the lobby start to turn.

Sam bumps him in acknowledgment.

Two women leaving the cocktail lounge elbow each other and stagger their way. Clerk hands Sam a key, folded in an envelope—with, predictably, her number on it. One brave dude pockets his phone, stands up and heads for the desk. Grannies walk off from their slot machines.

Dean’s pulse spikes. Marked arm twitches towards a pyramid-shaped paperweight. He could brain both women with it before they had time to scream. Draw his gun. Drive back brave boy and just wait while three out of four grannies’ hearts stop. He asks the clerk, “You got a back elevator we can use?”

She points them to a door marked STAFF, and they hustle for it. Quiet back here, deserted. Down the hall and to the left they board a freight elevator. Dean punches penthouse and the doors engage, excruciatingly slow.

“Hold, please!” A snooty-looking concierge prances around the corner. The second he lays eyes on Sam, his whole demeanor darkens and his pace picks up.

_I’ll snap your scrawny neck_ , Dean thinks, but he pulls his badge. Growls, “You’re interfering with a federal investigation.”

The concierge hesitates, just long enough. Nondescript gray doors latch closed, gears churn. Dean gulps acid. Grinds his teeth. Smothers incandescent rage at all the killing he can’t do.

*

Sam swipes the keycard to Rowena’s suite. They pass through a marble entryway into a sitting room filled with gleaming glass and rich wood. Sofa, chair, and ottoman surround the TV; wet bar flanks a door leading to the bedroom.

“Hey,” Dean focuses. “How about you start in the back, work towards the middle?”

Sam smiles, tongue in his teeth. Looks Dean over like a butcher at a hog auction. Light from a Tiffany lamp plays off his skin, sweat-damp and colorful. He blinks. “Uh. What am I looking for?”

“Personal stuff,” Dean sighs. “Something to juice up the tracking spell; this was _your_ plan, man!” He could drop Sam right here. Blanket him and strangle him and writhe until they come in their pants.

Sam nods, shuffles for the bedroom and throws Dean a mournful, smoldering look as he turns out of sight.

Urge to follow rips at Dean like Hell hooks. He actually takes a step, before he wrenches back and makes for the foyer. Clicking on his flashlight, he inspects door frames, checks out the chair in an office nook. _All those people downstairs_. He peers over and under the sink in a half-bath, back of the mirror and base of the toilet. He could’ve bent Sam over in front of them; that would’ve kept them back—probably.

Showing off, that was a demon favorite. Holding Sam down, on Hell’s throne, bare cocks pressed together and sweat-slick from the flames. Dean, raising the First Blade, flashing the Mark for the souls assembled. Slashing his neck and holding Sammy like a nursing baby.

“I found something!” Sam calls. “Long, red, curly hair. Stuck to the shower wall!”

“Jackpot,” Dean says. “Bag it and let’s get outta here,” before he does anything reckless. “Find us a witch.”

*

They head for the no-man’s-land between the Strip and Downtown. Sam stares slackjawed at the passing pedestrians. Slouched in the shotgun seat, open collar and loose tie. Jacket in the back. Sam licks his teeth. Absently touches his chest, face, hair. There’s a sheen about him—a laxness, as he ambles across the parking lot of a dirt-cheap, no-name place with slot machines in the lobby. Dean watches his back. Ready to brawl anyone who might try an ambush.

“Hey, daddy.” Draped over the second-story railing, two good-time girls share a cigarette and a bottle in a paper bag. “You lookin’ for a date?” the brunette asks.

“No!” Dean barks, and they show their palms. Giggle at him once he’s out of sight.

“You didn’t have to be a dick.” Sam peels his dress shirt off and hugs himself, rubs his arms.

“Yeah, I did.” Dean drops his duffel on the nearest bed. “You are in no condition—”

“What condition?” One sweat drop springs from the creases of Sam’s neck. Dives for the hollow between his collarbones. “I feel fine!”

Dean stares at him. “You’re shittin’ me.” He wants to tackle Sam. Grind him in the carpet and suck bruises on his chest. “Okay,” he clears his throat. “What did you think of that desk clerk?”

“She was hot.”

“She was _sixty!_ ”

“Fifty tops.” Sam shrugs.

Dean shudders. “You’re getting worse, dude. You’re like a jungle cat today; you don’t wanna fuck, you wanna _breed_.” He needs to shut his traitor mouth.

Sam lifts an eyebrow, starts to speak but Dean bulls over him.

“Go… call in a pizza. Get a shower. See if Charlie’s anywhere with that… that blackbox thing. I gotta run this spell.”

Sam nods, chews his lip and gets his phone out. Tosses his t-shirt. Dean staggers. He has to touch the wall to ground himself. Grimy, lightly textured wallpaper like broken glass under his fingers.

He straightens up and wraps Rowena’s hair around a dowsing crystal while Sam procures dinner. Map of the U.S.A. on the vanity counter, candles at the cardinal points. “Where are you, Rowena McCleod?” he murmurs as he draws infinity loops, clear quartz swinging from its silver chain.

Bedsprings creak behind him and Dean’s eyes jump to the mirror. Sam settles, folds forward to take off his dress shoes. Bent in half…

Dean concentrates. “Where are you, Rowena McCleod?” he says again, and this time, thank fuck, the crystal pulls. Dean lets it land with a thump.

“I don’t think it’s working, Sam; this says Charlotte.” He didn’t fuck it up, he’s pretty sure. “How could—”

“She’s a witch, dumbass. She teleported.”

“ _You_ teleported,” Dean grumbles. And, “Well, we’ve got a direction at least.” He spins and leans against the counter.

Sam sits at the little table, fly wide open. “Nothing from Charlie.” Laptop lights him in an eerie blue. He looks over, meets Dean’s eyes and Dean can’t look away. Can’t risk raking his eyes down Sam’s body, falling to the temptation of tasting Sam’s skin, marking him, making him match the mirage in Dean’s head.

“We should…” Sam scrapes nails through his chest hair. Little red lines rise. “Y’know. In the morning.” He points at Dean—no, he points behind Dean, at—

“Run the tracker again?”

Sam _mmmmms_.

Dean’s throat clicks. “Yeah, good call.” Gravelly.

He stashes Sam in the bathroom while he pays for the pizza.

After they eat, “So-uh, I gotta get four hours, here. You gonna be all right?”

Sam nods. Hair swings tantalizingly. Laid out shirtless, nipples stick out like erasers. Dean _wants_. To hold Sam’s wrists down. Grind his bones. Pinching, twisting, biting torment. Make him swollen, red, and raw.

Dean scoots for the shower. He can keep his hands off Sam; he has to. Sam’s in a pheromone haze; he’d poke a donut if it was warm enough. Tiny little shampoo bottle tumbles to the floor. Dean ignores it, leaves it to pour out down the drain. God alone knows what Rowena put in that potion. She could have hexed Sam with some, as-yet-unknown side effect—like that diner brawl, for example—and even if banging Sam would cure him, the blowback...

Dean rubs out a load, third one today, not that it helps much. He and Sam both took extra-long rest stops this afternoon, conscientiously not in the same place.

Sam snores. Dean falls in the other bed, wet-haired and restless.

*

For two days, Dean wears his tightest shorts and loosest jeans. Longest shirts give him enough cover to not embarrass himself at gas stops. Backroads. Drive-throughs. Sam shares time behind the wheel until his concentration lapses get terrifying. Mostly, he sits shotgun and squirms, runs hands through his hair and rolls his shoulders. Low moans, labored breathing, puffed cheeks on hard exhales.

Dean tries hard to think about baseball stats. Ripe corpses. Bobby and his pedicures. Still can’t quit daydreaming demon. Sam on Hell’s rack. Screaming, pleading, bleeding and coming. Dean blasts the music, windows down. Pushes until his eyes turn to paste, eight hours out of Charlotte, some little pissant town in Kentucky.

“I’m shredded.” He wheels into a Motel 6.

“I can…” Sam swallows. Dean stares as his Adam’s apple works. “I can drive. We don’t have to…”

“Yeah, okay.” Dean tenses as a girl in cowboy boots and cutoffs leaves the office. “What city are we going to?”

“Uh. Ch-Charleston?” Sam stares as she sways down the sidewalk.

“That’s what I thought. Wait here.”

Dean checks in, keeping an eye on Sam what he can, and still—

“Son of a bitch.” He got distracted for five seconds, and now all he sees are denim shorts, cut to the curve of an apple ass. Shiny boots.

Dean grabs the keys and bolts. “Yo!” Pulse up.

The cowgirl pulls her head out of Sam’s window, flashes irritation.

“Uh.” Sam swipes both hands down his face. “It’s-uh, been really nice talking to you—”

“He’s busy tonight,” Dean interrupts.

She looks at Sam, who ducks his chin.

“Well…” She drags her fingers down Sam’s arm, and he shivers. “I’m in Room 4 if you change your mind.” At least she doesn’t fight.

Dean climbs in and leaves her standing, staring as they drive further into the lot.

Sam strips the minute he’s inside the room. Tacky bedside lamp straight out of the seventies casts him in a honey sheen. He bends over the sink, splashes water on his face. Back muscles ripple; Dean’s blood boils. He busies himself resetting the tracking spell for the morning. Only watches from his peripheral as Sam stretches, brushes his fingers on the ceiling, groaning. Note of anguish Dean’s not heard before. Sam runs his hands from his jaws to his temples, through his hair around his ears, down the back of his neck. Rubs his shoulders.

Dean blasts an exhale and meets Sam’s eyes in the mirror. Forces himself to look down, into the duffel he’s holding. Sightless. Sam glows like a holy thing, and Dean can’t bear it.

He doesn’t move until he hears bedsprings, Sam’s settling-in sounds; then he breaks for the bathroom. Halfway—

“Dean…” Sam seizes his wrist. Perched on the foot of the bed. Wide eyes, dilated to the point of demon black.

Tunnel vision. Memory of a fantasy. Sleek, slim horns peeking out from Sam’s shaggy hair, faun-like. Body rippling, wiry strong. Boy King. Babyface. Smooth and pale as marble, waist to his neck. Down dusting his thighs, thickening to goat-pelt calves, elongated ankles and elegant hooves. Scruffy college-boy satyr, black-eyed, bouncing on Dean’s dick with blood smeared down his chin.

“I need you,” Sam pleads.

Dean doesn’t tear his wrist away, lets Sam scorch him. “Ah, don’t worry, man. I ain’t going anywhere.”

“No!” Sam rises. Touches Dean’s face. “I _need_ you.” He licks his lips.

Dean’s drawn and quartered: Mark of Cain, Love Potion Number 9, his own perversions and a deep, hard-wired commandment to protect Sam. “Hey. We can’t, you understand? You’d never—”

Sam crumbles. “I knew you’d say no.” At least, that’s what Dean thinks he mumbles.

“Come on, kid.” Dean grits his teeth. Summons every scrap of willpower left in him. “We need rest; we’re pushing hard.” He grips Sam’s shoulders. Shudder takes them both. Dean wrestles him; guides him onto the pillows, under the covers. Flopping. Wallowing like a sloppy drunk.

Sam ought to writhe like that on Dean’s cock. Head thrown back, long neck, blood-dark. Yelling Dean’s name, sandpaper raw. Screamed out and reamed dry.

Dean tucks himself in. Pulls his balls until tears spring to his eyes. Sleep comes; he’s exhausted, but it’s fitful. Aching. Plagued with dreams of blades and chains and raw, red-meat walls. He won’t remember.

*

Sam’s gone.

Dean knows it before he ascends completely to consciousness. The room’s too quiet: not a snuffle, not a squeak. No screeching shower or clacking laptop. Pale pre-dawn light leaks in around the curtains. There’s a post-it note directly in his sightline.

_Back soon  
Don’t worry_

Dean doesn’t move, not right away. Sam must’ve laid the cowgirl. What’d she say? Room 4? He should go kick that door down, gut her where she lays. Hell. He could do all three of them. Be the first demon to welcome Sam home downstairs. Give her to the dogs. He tamps down fury, tenses and relaxes muscle groups: legs, arms, fists.

He beats off his morning wood in the shower. Takes his time brushing his hair, his teeth. He packs, notices Sam already did. Sky color shifts, gray to pink, starts teetering towards blue as Dean ties his bootlaces, tries to pinpoint the exact ratio of passive/aggressive he should shoot for in his next text.

He’s gonna murder Sam once that curse clears.

Feet scuff the sidewalk. Dean perks up. Key clicks in the lock. He stands. Ready to unload—

Coffee-and-bacon smell hits him just before the sight of Sam’s ducked head. Eyes up, lashes fanned under his eyebrows. “I brought breakfast.” Timid. Transparent peace offering in yesterday’s clothes. Damp hair says he already showered.

“You got food? What’s the matter with you? Unless—” For one second, Dean entertains the possibility that Sam’s cured.

Sam licks his lips. Heat flares in Dean’s nuts and forearm.

“We ordered in.” Sam smolders.

Knots form in Dean’s gut. Black-burning ire. “You really went and banged that girl knowing she’s basically roofied.” He’s pissed about being ditched, but the moral case will sting Sam more.

Except, “That’s pretty extreme.” Sam brushes him off. “Besides, she approached _me_.”

“Because you’re…” Dean waves a hand at Sam’s whole body. “It ain’t like people can say no to you.”

Sam squints. “You’re doing fine so far.”

_Fine?_ Dean about chokes. He’s had years of practice and he’s—

“Why are you even harping on this?” Sam’s saying. “Nobody got hurt. Erin met somebody nice, she had a good time—”

“That’s your standard now?” Dean’s skin crawls. “She had a good time? You’re like, Mister Consent, normally; this is a major malfunction, Sam!”

He looks confused. “So, you don’t want breakfast?”

Dean snatches the bag. “I’ll take it to go.” He storms out.

Sam hesitates about three seconds before he follows.

*

Usually, Dean loves driving this part of the country. Rolling hills and winding roads, wildflowers bowing in his wake. Being a dick on purpose saps some of its charm, but he’s not sorry.

Silent ride, not even the radio. Sam seems unfazed, elbow out the window, pinching his lip. Still fidgety, sweatier than yesterday, or is that Dean’s imagination?

Sam startles, takes a breath, digs his phone out of his jeans. “Charlie emailed.” Smirk twists his face.

“Awesome. What’s she say?”

Little wrinkles pop between Sam’s eyebrows. Off his phone, monotone: “Hey bitches, that’s some sick code you sent me. I can get you more deets tomorrow but I cracked the executive summary.”

“That’s the blackbox stuff?” Dean cuts in.

“Yeah.” Sam goes back to reading, “Good news, you’re not gonna die! Bad news: What you’re going through is the potion, (that pinch of succubus venom, the active ingredient,) gradually shutting down your soul.”

“Son of a bitch.” Dean’s whole morning pulls into focus.

“First you lose your insecurities, then your inhibitions, and finally your conscience,” Sam continues. “All the test subjects, (ahem,) achieved ‘sexual congress’ during that last phase. PS, they buried these experiments because things started trending rapey.”

“Rapey,” Dean says. “Imagine that.”

Sam doesn’t take the bait. “Anyway, I’m still digging. Got the decryption key now, so shoot me questions.” He looks up from his phone. “Peace out, Charlie.”

“I shoulda fuckin’ known,” Dean grumbles.

“Known what?” Sam says. “I had, _sexual congress_ and now I’m fine. We can turn around and—”

“You are not fine!” Dean doesn’t mean to yell.

“You’re still turned on?” Sam says, faintly breathy.

Dean gets a taste of what spontaneous combustion must feel like. “You’re not?”

“I thought it was… afterglow.” Sam shows teeth.

Dean stifles a shudder. “You couldn’t tell your soul was…” Dean swipes with his thumb, whistles, _outta here_.

“I…” Sam’s face twists in concentration. “It’s not like before.”

“Well you could’ve fooled me,” Dean grumbles.

“I mean, I can feel it…” Sam trails off.

“But…”

“I dunno, it’s…” 

“Not callin’ the shots.”

“No.” Sam shows zero concern.

_Shit._ “You know what?” He’s gonna cut Rowena into tiny cubes and mail her to Crowley. “Put in a tape, huh? Lady’s choice.” _Soulless_ , Dean thinks. _That guy was a piece of work_. His forearm flares, calls him out, pots and kettles—which, kind of makes his point. How long before they wreck the world? Neither one having a moral center?

Sam picks Zepp II and Dean calls him a kiss-ass. They trade half-nods and quarter-smiles, signal a truce.

Still, Dean eyes Sam. This soulless creature better never put two and two together, figure out how much power they could get their hands on. He’d slit Dean’s throat in his sleep, no questions asked. Turn him black-eyed. _Take_ his blood.

Dean hauls ass.

Thirty minutes after lunch, Sam crashes. Relapse, maybe, or, Love Potion Number 9’s heretofore unknown phase four, some kind special sauce Rowena put in—could be anything. Sam sprawls across the seat, cheek pressed to the window as sweat pours off him. Glassy eyes, flushed skin. What was hot and distracting yesterday turns feverish and distressing as the miles tick by. Dean runs the air conditioner at full blast and hangs on the wheel like a life preserver.

Highway slinks between the broken peaks of the Smoky Mountains. Dean stops, just inside the Carolina state line and helps Sam into the backseat. Stocks him up with Tylenol and Gatorade—temperature and hydration—all he can think to do.

He roars down the interstate. Sam breathes ragged, writhes like a ball python. Little whimpers every time Dean can’t dodge a pothole. Muttering, which Dean tells himself is gibberish and not begging.

Acid rises in Dean’s throat. He leaves the radio off and drives fucking faster.


	3. The Cure

Sam sucks air through his teeth as Dean hauls him out of the car.

“I know it hurts, man, but I got you.”

Slamming door echoes through the parking garage’s concrete caverns. Sam leans heavy on Dean’s shoulder as rage boils in his throat. Rowena and her bullshit backfired potion… “Think you can make the elevator?”

Sam blows a deep breath out through tight lips and stands straight, takes his weight off Dean. He stays upright all the way through the lobby. Dean swipes his stolen master key in the penthouse slot, and they wait. Even in this shape Sam turns heads. Incites whispers.

_“…ever seen such a beautiful…”_

All alone when the car closes, Sam leans on Dean. Leans harder once they’re in the room and off surveillance. Sam’s barely on his feet; the walk cost him.

Dean manhandles him to Rowena’s bedroom, lays him on the bed.

Sam twists. “My clothes, Dean, I—”

Teeth grind so hard they squeak. Dean valiantly struggles to summon his old, take-care-of-Sammy self. Sam pushes up on his palms. Heavy, labored breath. He screws his face up and pulls his flannel down one shoulder. Stifled moan.

“Hey. Relax, man, lemme…” Dean eases Sam’s shirt sleeves down to his wrists. Gentle, but Sam grunts and hisses. He smells strong: sex and sweat. Sam shakes his wrists free and Dean says, “Here. Lean into me.”

Sam nestles his head against Dean’s neck. Routine, one of them too fucked up—booze or blood loss—to sit up on their own. Dean hooks Sam’s t-shirt hem, feels him steel himself. Dean tugs it up to Sam’s armpits, helps him clear the neck hole, cradles Sam with one arm while they work his hands free.

Sam huffs into Dean’s collar. Muscles quake, skin tics. Now he lets Dean lay him down, tight neck cords and flexing jaws. Sam’s jogging pants tent obscenely, but Dean swallows coals and unties the waistband. Choked-back sobs accompany every patch of skin Dean bares. He can see Sam twitching, trying not to flinch, as he slides Sam’s pants down. Hard-on jerks and pulses, leaks and strains. Dean offers him modesty, drapes his t-shirt across his crotch.

“No. I can’t.” Sam radiates. Sweat drips down his sides, soaks his hair.

Dean crams all the clean washcloths into a half-melted champagne bucket. Wrings one out and wipes Sam’s face. Shudder rocks the bed and Sam twists in pain. Lips stretch thin across his teeth. He groans when Dean lays a fresh cold cloth on his forehead.

“Keep changing these,” Dean rumbles. “Try to keep cool.”

“Don’t trust her,” Sam rasps.

“Yeah, no shit.” And it’s all he can do not to kiss Sam. Bite Sam’s swollen, fevered lips and see how loud he’d scream.

Dean stands and stalks out, while he still can. He parks on a pristine white chair in the sitting room, facing the door. He rests his pistol on his knee.

*

Rowena’s not long, thank fuck. Dean hears action in the keycard slot and he levels his gun. Rowena hits the lights and—

 _Click_. Dean draws the hammer. “What’d you do to my brother?”

Rowena straightens, portrait of composure. “Why, good evening, Dean! What a surprise!”

Dean drops the muzzle, aims for her knee.

“I’ve no’ done a thing to him, dearie, I can assure you!” she says.

“Then, explain to me why he’s fucked up and soulless in that bedroom.”

“Soulless?” She turns her head, looks at Dean sideways. “How can ye know such a thing?”

“That roofie you gave him. Sucks out souls, right?”

“ _Formulae Novem?_ ” Rowena laughs. “Merely _diverts_ a touch of soul; it’s a _child’s_ spell—”

“Yeah, well, what if somebody lost their soul and then had it put back?”

Rowena opens her mouth, hesitates.

“It’s a long story and it’s none of your business,” Dean says.

“Fair enough.” Rowena smooths her skirts and faces Dean, unfearing. “Go on and shoot me, then, if it’s vengeance you crave.” She hooks an eyebrow. Outrageous makeup glitters, gold on purple. “Or! Ye can ask for me help.”

“Yeah, and what’ll that cost me?”

“Only me freedom,” she says. “Let me see to Sam, and if I can cure him, you’ll let me walk out this door unhindered. Are we agreed?”

Dean jerks his chin. “If you can cure him.”

“May I?” Rowena lifts her bag and Dean nods. She digs around, pulls out a purple crystal maybe the size of a baseball. Strides towards the bedroom with her nose in the air.

Sam’s barely conscious. “Dean?” he mumbles. Lifts his head but drops back with a groan.

“Just take it easy, man.”

Rowena leers. Red-raw possessiveness skitters up Dean’s back. Her voice drops. “Tell me everything that’s happened.”

Dean grits out the recap, from the diner to Sam’s soulless act. Sam shivers, occasionally groans, and Dean keeps his gun trained, not quite on Rowena but in her line of sight.

“He’s been like this since lunch,” Dean finishes.

Rowena gathers herself, speaks an incantation and her eyes go white. Dean cringes. She chants. Pale, amethyst light grows in the crystal as she moves towards Sam. Flickering. Flare so bright Dean has to shield his eyes. Sam seizes.

“Now what’d you fuckin’ do to him?” Dean fumes.

Sam’s convulsion passes but he breathes like he lost a fight.

Rowena blinks, eyes turn normal. “Sam’s soul is present and functioning.” She circles the bed; the crystal sparkles. “You say he’s gone without it before?”

Dean glares.

“Long story, not my business, I understand.” She holds up a hand. “It would seem—and I’m three-quarters guessing—” She looks at Sam with a most unsettling mix of lust and pity. “Rather than… merely muting parts of his soul, in your brother’s case, the _Formulae Novem_ … disconnected them?” Her shoulders rise, lips peel back in a Dick Roman smile. “He completed the ritual, when he took the young lady to bed, but now…” She pauses, dramatic bitch. “His soul is unable to _re_ connect.” She touches the cloth on Sam’s forehead. He winces.

Dean growls. “So now what?”

Rowena turns. “I suspect the simplest thing will be to remove the cur—” Her crystal gutters like a dying candle. “My, my.” She stops short. “But let’s hold that thought for a moment.” Black tarantula lashes flutter and a sleazy smile hooks her painted mouth. “What do you know about soulmates, Dean?”

 _Special cases,_ he remembers. Clears his throat.

“What?” Sam grunts. Struggles to his elbows.

“Sometimes,” Rowena lectures like they’re toddlers, “two people are born with, effectively, bound souls.” She waves her purple light from side to side. It flickers madly.

“Rowena…” Dean warns.

She sighs. “My advice?” Her voice drops low, “Have at each other.” Rowena licks her lips. Flicks her eyes between them like she’d gladly stay and watch.

Sam flops back to the bed and Dean turns away. He has to, or he’s gonna put a bullet in her.

“That, I suspect, is the easiest thing,” she finishes triumphantly.

“You’re freakin’ serious.” Dean rumbles.

“Of course!” She feigns sympathy. “I can see how you’d find such an act… distasteful. No matter! My offer stands to remove the curse. It would take time, supplies—”

“No!” Sam says. “Get out.”

“You heard the man.” Dean steers Rowena back to the sitting room.

“He seems… eager.”

“Shut the fuck up, witch.” Dean doesn’t twist her arm, but it’s all he can do. “Where can I find you, if this doesn’t work?”

“It’ll work—”

Now Dean twists, just a little.

Rowena winces but says, “San Antonio.”

“Don’t tell me. La Plaza.”

Rowena peers up at him. “Goodbye, Dean. And, good luck.”

He’s left holding nothing but a puff of smoke.

*

Dean manages to walk, not run, to get supplies from the drugstore down the block. He gets back to Sam, teetering on the edge of the bed, wrecked. Hands on his knees, sweat-plastered hair. He looks up with hollow eyes.

Dean’s tongue smacks on the roof of his mouth. “Last chance, dude. Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“Because,” Dean goes on, “we’re pretty compromised.”

“We’re always compromised.”

Dean fake-chuckles. “Look.” He kneels between Sam’s feet, “Rowena said there’s another way, so, y’know—”

“No,” Sam holds his eyes, “but… if you’re gonna freak out…” Teeth-chattering shivers.

“Nah.” Dean grasps for bravado. “Come on.” He touches Sam’s bicep. Sam flinches. “Turn over; we’ll get you fixed up.”

Sam heaves out another tight-lipped breath and pivots, groans, settles face down and spread-eagle. Streetlights through the lace window sheers cast mottled gold and shadow on his skin. Dean’s chest locks up, mouth dries, dick tries to bust clean through his zipper. Boiling, blister-hot in his arm, in his balls, up his neck. He strips to his boxer briefs while he stares: Sam’s broad shoulders, tiny waist. Long, lean thighs and a round, fuck-me ass. He kneels between Sam’s ankles, lifts his hips and drags him backward. Bends Sam’s knees so he’s ass up, cheeks split. Sam cries out when Dean gently thumbs his hole.

He dribbles drugstore lube down Sam’s crack, onto his fingers. Smears the slick around Sam’s rim. Sam vibrates. Clipped grunts, high color in his skin, ripped-taut muscles. Dean opens him. Scalding. Clenching tight and rocking, tugging Dean’s finger.

Sam comes. Fists and toes hammer the mattress. Dean yells with him, startled. So hard he’s poking out the waistband of his shorts.

“Jesus, Sammy. Just this?” Dean starts to withdraw and Sam lets rip a chest-deep keening.

“Don’t stop.” Anguished.

Heat like snakebite venom seeps from the Mark. Dean puts two in him. Sam howls like he’s being murdered, muffled in a pillow, and Dean tries to soothe him. Pets down Sam’s thigh, so light. Sam bellows like it’s a brand.

Dean makes himself go slow, tells himself it’s for Sam’s sake, even though Sam’s agony feeds a fire in him, drives him to drag it out. Sam sniffs and shudders, moans like barbed wire, but he’s hard again, leaking on the bedspread and saying Dean’s name, curses and prayers.

“Can’t wait anymore.” Sam contorts. Chin on his shoulder. “Please, it’s enough, you have to…” Glazed eyes, wild.

Dean knows that look, past the threshold where pain’s been your faithful companion for so long, you’re friends now. He feels dangerous. Barely has to touch Sam to make him twitch and whine and—

“Dean?” Sam rocks on his fingers. Sweat drains from the small of his back. “I can take it. Please…”

—beg.

“All right,” Dean grits. Sacks up, slicks up. Aims for Sam’s hole and his dick jumps out of his hand as Sam reaches back—tan fingers contrast against his pale cheeks—and spreads himself. Dean palms Sam’s hip and presses in.

Sam screams. Bears down, scrabbles at the covers. Dean drives home in one, long, infernal push. Mark’s a firestorm, pulsing backdraft and still Sam blazes by comparison, wet and trembling. Sam draws careful, measured breaths, and Dean curls hands at his hips. Sizzling. Almost steams where he digs his fingers in. Sam howls but he doesn’t try to get away and Dean starts moving. Glacial. Hot-spark pleasure when Sam shudders. Beats the pillows.

 _God_ , and _Dean_ , and _need_ , and _please_ , and _fuck me_.

Sam sweats rivers, sobs and writhes, claws at his hair, meets Dean’s thrusts. Lube drips down his thighs and the mattress rocks like a hobby horse. Sam’s hips swivel. Back bows and his ass churns, more-more-more.

He clamps down, roars, and Dean shatters. No buildup, no warning. Dean jackhammers, white blots his vision. Pulsing. Sam grasping, swearing in dead languages. Dean buckles, blankets Sam and slides off in a heap.

Heartbeats slow, breathing settles.

“God,” Sam wheezes. Paws at Dean’s chest. Eyes fall closed.

Dean deals with the condom, washes his junk in the sink while Sam snores in the next room. He carries out damp hand towels, hesitates. Hickeys and teeth marks spray across Sam’s shoulders. Thumbprints stain his cheeks. Sets of fingers blaze pink, just above his hips. Dean staggers. His brother, his Sam, _his_.

He takes hold of himself. Mops up the lube shining on Sam’s thighs. Slides a terry cloth-wrapped finger between Sam’s cheeks. Sam hisses. Ragdolled. Dean tugs on his shoulder and rolls him on his back. Clean towel for Sam’s face and neck, then his crotch. Sam lets Dean pose him like an action figure, cleaning up come and shit and sweat and lube. Sam groans, but it’s not the miserable wailing he let out earlier.

Deranged glee sparks in Dean’s gut as Sam’s dick starts filling again. He locks his teeth on the meat of Sam’s inner thigh. Sam hollers, flexes. Dean teases. Peppers brutal kisses all around. Pink moons and twitching muscles dot his wake. He licks Sam’s creases. Nips and tugs Sam’s sack. Pitchy, hungry sounds, like a power ballad. Sam stares, hooded eyes and quick breaths. Hard-on bobs with his heartbeat.

Heat roils Dean’s forearm. He leaves a trail of roundish, reddening hickeys all up Sam’s chest: breastbone, pecs. Tries to mark Sam’s ribs but he’s so ticklish Dean can’t make a good seal. Sam squirms, bats at him, tells him to quit it.

Dean looks up and Sam curls a hand behind his head, tips back, offers his throat. Dean growls. Dark, volcanic, _want_ takes hold, and he surges. Brackets Sam. Falls on a tender spot below Sam’s ear, sucks ragged. Sam palms Dean’s back, clings to him. Sweat mingles between their bare chests and Dean sinks teeth in Sam’s shoulder.

Sam shouts; Dean combs sweaty hair off his forehead. Knuckles his cheek. Sam doesn’t wince. Heavy stubble—been a few days since he had the dexterity to shave. Glassy look’s gone from his eyes, and his color’s better. Red, red lips…

Dean’s tongue swipes and Sam opens. Sharp teeth and a ridged mouth roof. Moans buzz, Dean cradles Sam’s neck. Kissing. Wandering. Corner of Sam’s lips, point of his jaw. Earlobe. Where his shoulder joins. Dean licks along Sam’s collarbone. Drifts, circles a nipple. Sam arches. Dean leaves wide, wet stripes; Sam clutches his shoulders. Hips and fingers flex as Dean clamps on, sucks hard. Holds Sam’s nipple in his teeth and worries it with his tongue.

Sam bucks like a Tilt-a-Whirl, mouth gaping as soft, sweet sounds fall out. He hooks his legs behind Dean’s back, pulls him close. Grinds his blistering hard-on into Dean’s stiffening one. They kiss. Sam drives his tongue in Dean’s mouth, traces his teeth.

“Needy.” Dean grins against his lips. Sam rumbles. Rolls Dean under; Dean goes without a fight.

“Wait here,” Sam says. Deep dimples and low eyelids.

Dean worms around to the middle of the bed, folds his hands behind his neck and leers as Sam walks to where Dean left the extra rubbers. Wobbly, Dean notes smugly; even though it’s clear Sam’s pain is gone. Sam crawls, catlike, up from the foot of the bed until he straddles Dean’s thighs. Sam’s tore up. Bruised, ears to his knees. Hickeys on his chest and shoulders, fingermarks at his hips. Dean stares. Shifting, glistening skin as Sam rips the foil. Tongue out, concentration, delicate long fingers slip the tip over Dean’s head. He holds still. Grinds his teeth, determined not to thrust and send the condom sailing.

Sam strokes him three or four times once it’s on. Muted chill where he pours the lube. More strokes before Sam reaches back, wipes himself with the extra. Wanton. Dean’s frozen. Sam goes all fours, long enough to briefly trap Dean’s bottom lip between his teeth and line his ass up. He grabs Dean’s dick. Wriggles, smears, and sinks.

 _He’s done this before; he’s too smooth_. Thought skitters away as Sam sits down moaning. Angling his hips and fluttering as Dean spears him. Sam’s weight settles on Dean’s thighs; hole scalds and spasms on his cock. Sam’s eyes roll back in his head. Palms rest on Dean’s belly. Flush returns to his chest and cheeks and he moves, swirls Dean inside him.

Dean gives in and thrusts and Sam yelps, then sighs. Thighs flex and he rises, grips Dean’s shaft in shuddery waves. Faster. Dean gets Sam around the hips and shores him up. Sam squirms. Skewered. Unselfconscious. Bouncing on Dean’s dick with his eyes closed and his teeth bared. Dean lends him a hand, thumbs his slit. Sam sucks a breath, tilts and tenses. Dean jams up in him and jacks him fast.

Sam’s third load splashes all over Dean’s stomach. Sam hunches. Hair flops in his face and his ass buzzes, arms tremble, legs shake and he crashes. Splays across Dean’s chest, reflex-humping, rubbing his spent dick in his own mess. Sam’s hair tickles him, breath scalds him. Picture of what they must look like—red and glistening, writhing, locked together—hits Dean like a brick in the face.

He puts Sam on his back and shoves his knees up by his chest. Sam flashes tongue and dopey dimples. Dean cruises in. Sam moans, guttural and desperate. Clenched teeth and quivering lashes. Dean moves. Sam spews a string of swears and pleas. Dean cages him, pounds him. Lays his head on Sam’s chest.

“Need you.” Comes through clear in Sam’s muttering.

Dean unfolds, twines fingers in his hair. “I need you too, Sam.”

Shuddering. Sam looks electrified. “Fuck me.” He clamps down.

Dean blanks out. Yields to instinct, chases bliss in Sam’s wet heat. He pulls out, tears the rubber off, jerks with brutal strokes and fires. Thick white ropes splash Sam’s abs.

Dean collapses.

*

Morning streaks merciless through the room’s tall windows. Dean cracks one eye, groans, tries to hide his head under the covers. When he hits resistance, all of last night rushes back.

Sam’s pressed huge and warm against his side. Facing away, with their ankles tangled. Sam breathes low and rhythmic, hint of a snore. Dean should get up, leave Sam be. He could make a supply run, bring back breakfast—

Sam stirs. Audible yawn, and he tenses halfway through a sleepy stretch. “Dean?” Raspy.

He bumps Sam’s back with his shoulder. “Mornin’.” More nonchalant than he feels.

Loaded quiet. Dean’s not picturing goat-Sam; that’s a good sign. He steals a look. Mouth-shaped bruises dot his shoulders; shadows of Dean’s fingers stain his glutes. Warm pulse of the Mark seems almost pleased.

“You-uh. Better now?” Dean asks.

“Yeah,” forced-casual voice, “I’m… all back to the normal amount of wishing you’d fuck me.”

“You—” Dean’s eyes pop. “What now?”

Sam turns so they’re face-to-face. Not a squeak in this fancy mattress. “Clearly, I’m not crazy about _how_ it happened,” he drops his eyes, “but… I don’t want to go back to pretending we’re not…”

“Hot for each other?” Dean smirks.

Sam huffs. “I’m serious!” Firm, stubborn set to his chin.

Dean shows his palms.

“What would you have done?” Sam gets quiet. Glances at their naked bodies, “If this hadn’t worked?”

Dean shrugs. “Chased down Rowena again.”

“And then? What. Make a deal? Owe her?”

“Anything!” Dean’s irritation flares. “I’d have done anything if it would’ve saved you. You know this.”

Sam smiles.

Coals flare in Dean’s arm, but he ignores Sam’s implication. “We should get outta here. You know? Hit the highway before whatever mojo Rowena put on the manager wears off.”

“Shower first?” Sam ducks his head. Looks up innocent and nasty like a Jack and Coke.

“Well. If we’re gonna shower…” Dean springs, rolls over, straddles Sam. Bends to kiss his lips, his jaws, his neck. Freshens up some of those love bites just below his collar line. Sam moans, runs his hands up Dean’s back, grinds on him. Dean rumbles.

Highway can wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr art post](https://angeltortured-artblog.tumblr.com/post/632985930350886912/artwork-for-laughablelament-fic-for)
> 
> [tumblr fic post](https://laughablelament.tumblr.com/post/632992381318430720/wincestbigbang-title-love-potion-number-9)


End file.
